T II E 



COQUETTE: 



^ domestic Bvama, 



I IN FIVE ACTS. 



By ROBERT JOSSELYN. 



AUSTIN: 

PRINTED FOK THE AUTHOH. 

Ift'ZS. 



THE 



COQUETTE 



^ domestic Dvamit^ 



IN B^IVE ACTS. 



By ROBERT JOSSELYN. 



S^ 






j^o.lj%.H^- 



AUSTIN: 0^< 

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR. 

1878. 



// 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by 

EOBEET JOSSELTN, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congi-ess, at Washingi;on, D. C. 



E. W. SWINDELLS, PRINTER, 
AUSTIN, TEXAS. 



T^IP96-00644C 



THE COQUETTE. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 



RICHARD PETWAY— A rich Mer- 
chant of New York City. 

JACOB ROWLAND — A poor Fanner 
of Vermont. 

HENRY HOWLAND — His Son. 

COURTNEY SMYTHE — The Bank- 
er's Heir. 



SYMPLE PLUSH — A City Fop. 
SHARPE CHISELL— A Gambler. 
GdVKRNOi: OF NEW YORK. 
HIS I'lMVATE SECIIKTARY. 
TWO CITIZENS OF THE CITY, PO- 
LlCli, WAITER, ito. 



FEMALE. 

MRfe. PETWAY— Wife of Richard Pet- I RUTH — Wife of Jacob Howland. 

way. JENNY — Lucy's Maid. 

LUCY PETWAY— His Daughter. | 

The time of the Drama is 1832. The scene of the first and second acts is in Ver- 
mont, tlie remainder in New York City. 



ACT I 



Scene I. — Veimont. — Kitchen of a Farm House. 

Fariner Howland and Ruth, Ms Wife. — Fariner sitting with 
Pipe and Neivspaper at a little Table. — Wife ironing at 
a larger one. 

Hoioland. ^Laying down his j^ij^e and neivspaper.^ Our 
poor boy! What can we do for him ? He is so restless, 
SO discontented, so unhappy. What can we do for him, 
wife ? 

Ruth. We can do nothing more than we have done. 
God knows how dear he is to my heart. But what better 
is he than his father and grandfather befoi'e him ? He 
must work for an honest living as they did. We are too 
poor to make him a scholar and a fine gentleman. He 
must labor and try to be content with his lot. You must 
not encourage the boy in his wild notions. They will be 



4 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

liis ruin — mark what I say — they will be his min, and ours, 
too, in the end. 

Hoioland. My dear wife, I have no idea of encouraging 
the boy in idleness and vain, wishes. I try hard to make 
him contented with his condition. I give him the best 
advice I can, and, surely, my example is not a bad one. 
But all this seems to do him no good. Neither precept nor 
example effect him. His nature is not like ours — why, I 
know not — God has willed it. The boy is fonder of read- 
ing than work. It was always so from his early years. 
Don't you remember how he would read the Bible over and 
over again when he could get nothing else to read ? And 
does not our preacher say that Henry is a marvel of learn- 
ing for his opportunities ? O that I had money to send 
him to college. What a preacher, or doctor, or lawyer 
he would make ! 

Ruth. You run wild yourself, husband, when you begin 
to talk of our boy, and it is easy to see how he comes by 
many of his foolish ways and doings. You, yourself, 
would rather be reading that odious old newspaper than 
working or reading your Bible, as a good Christian should. 
I hate newspapers. There is nothing in them fit to read 
but the marriages and deaths. Meddling with politics in- 
stead of minding your own business will ruin you as well 
as the boy. 

Howland. Don't be unreasonable, wife, and lose your 
temper and blame me for the boy's ways. After all, he 
is as much your son as mine. If he has my inclination to 
read, he has his mother's spunk, and can flare up, at the 
least spark, like a true chip of the old block. He almost 
frightens me, sometimes, with his fierce outbreaks. 

Ruth. There it is again — it is always so. I must be 
blamed for the boy's temper. I can't speak a word of his 
faults but I must be twitted about my temper, and told not* 
to get mad, and to keep cool, and that the boy gets his tem- 
per from me, the most patient and suffering wife and 
mother that ever lived. Anyhow, the boy don't get his 
laziness from me. 

Howland. Wife, for heaven's sake be calm. I had no 
thought of blaming you for the boy's conduct. Let us not 



Scene II.] THE COQUETTE. 5 

qnarrel in our old ap^e. Yes, yes, we are getting old, Ruth. 
It is now more than twenty-one years since we were mar- 
ried. Now, I think of it, Henry is twenty this very day. 
Ah ! how proud and happy I was when I held in my arms, 
for the first time, the little beauty, with hjs mother's soft 
brown hair and lily complexion. Aye, we have had our 
joys, wife, as well as our sorrows. Let us take them as 
they come and thank God all the same. But the boy — 
where is he to-day? 

Ruth. Gone to the woods, no doubt, as usual, with his 
book ; there to read and mutter poetry to himself. I should 
like to know what good poetry ever did anybody. Well, 
well, this is the dear child's birthday, sure enough. But 
it is time I was looking after the dinner. Husband, get 
me a bucket of water. I will bring in the wood. We 
must all eat, and somebody must work, or the idle would 
starve. ■ \Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A Chamher in a Country Cottage. 

Lucy Petway and her maid, Jenny. — Lucy standing before 
a Glass. 

Lucy. How am I looking to-day, Jenny ? Does the 
country air improve my complexion ? Do my eyes brighten 
with early rising ? Is this way of dressing my hair be- 
coming ? 

Jenny. La ! Miss Lucy, how many questions you do ask, 
without giving me time to answer none of them. How 
does you look ? Why, perfectly charming, perfectly kill- 
ing. I wish your city beaux could see you now — they 
would run clean crazy, every one of them. You looks as 
sweet and lovely as Juno, submerging from the briny deep. 

Lucy. Venus, you mean, Jenny. Venus was the hea- 
then godess of love, who the ancients imagined rose from 
the foam of the sea in perfect purity and beauty. Juno 
was the Queen of Heaven, the wife of Jove. 

Jenny. Well, Juno or Venus — it don't matter — you 
looks like both of them, and, I dare say, better than any 
heathen could look. Your complexion is whiter and clean- • 
er than any nasty foam, and you are fit to be the queen of 



6 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

Jove or of General Jackson either. Ah ! what a figure ! 
what a face ! what a hand ! what a foot ! and that shiny- 
brown hair, which looks for all the world like a rainbow 
round the sun ! Where did you get that beautiful rose ? 
Bless me ! if it isn't most as pretty as an artificial. 

Lucy. I gathered it myself in the garden, early this 
morning, with the dew upon it, sparkling like diamonds. 
I begin to like the country. I feel so much lighter and 
stronger here than in the city. To be sure, it is dull — no 
theaters, no concerts, no parties, no balls, no excitement, no 
lovers all sighing and dying for me. I sometimes almost 
wish some of them would die. I can love them all easy 
enough, but I can't marry them all, you know; and it would 
be so romantic; only think of it, dying for love, dying for 
me. I never had a great sorrow. I think I should like it. 
I never lost anything but a canary or cat. Everybody tries 
to please me. I want a new sensation. 

Jenny. A new sensation, Miss ? What sort of thing is 
that ? A new style of dress ? Is it made long or short, 
open in front or behind ? Has it buttons, and flounces, and 
ribbons, and ruffles, and — I don't know what ? You can't 
expect to get one in the country, Miss. Why didn't you 
think of it before you left the city ? 

Lucy. Nonsense, Jenny. It is no dress — it means feel- 
ing — you can understand that. I am tired of the monotony 
of my pleasures — the same thing over and over. I should 
like to have something to distress and distract and over- 
power me — something or other out of the usual way. 

Jenny. Lame! Is that all ? A new feeling! You must 
fall in love. Miss, really in love. I fell in love once, and I 
had a new feeling. such a curious feeling — it went 
through and through me, fro^n the tip of my head to the 
crown of my feet. It was an all-overish feeling. I can't 
prescribe it. Miss. It was so queer, and so funny, and so 
good, and so bad, too. Lordy ! I can't think of it now 
without cogitation. 

Lucy. Agitation, Jenny. You must learn to speak more 
properly, now you are a lady's maid. But it is strange you 
never told me of this before. I thought your heart had 
never been touched by the tender passion. How long did 



Scene III.] THE COQUETTE. 7 

it last ? How did you get over it ? Who was the Adonis, 
who captivated the fascinating Jenny ? 

Jenny. It wasn't no O'Donis at all, or any of that fam- 
ily. Miss. It was Terrence O'Brien, the nicest Irish lad 
that ever came over to work on the big canal and make 
his fortune. How did I get over it ? It got over itself, 
like the measles or scarlet fever, Miss. When Terrence, 
poor lad, was sent to the Plenipotentiary for having some- 
thing to do with a riot or row or an unlawful general 
assembly, it just died away and went out like a candle-wick. 
That's how it was. It didn't kill me. I'm not dead, you see. 

Lucy. No, very far from it. Well, Jenny, I trust you 
will have better luck next time. I have never had any 
trouble with my lovers, though it would not surprise me 
if some of them ought to be in the Penitentiary, instead of 
the unfortunate Terrence. I wonder if there can be any 
beaux in the country worth tormenting a little. How I 
should like a rustic lover, who never saw the fine ladies of 
the city. Wouldn't I be his idol ? Wouldn't he worship 
me ? What fun it would be ! We must look around. We 
must ramble about in the woods in search of adventures. 
Who knows what we may find, or what may happen ? Let 
us go now. Let us take a run to the hills and see the trout 
stream, which papa raves so much about, and which, I think, 
brought him here instead of going to the Springs. Quick, 
quick, Jenny. Get our hats and let us go before the 
sun is too high. 

Jenny. Yes, yes, Miss. ' Here we are. All ready. Now 
for it. \^They run out. 

Scene III. — A Wood, and Mountain Stream. 

Henry Howland seated on a Rock hy the Bank, Book in Hand. 

Henry. [^Rises impatiently .'] Why was I born to poverty 
and toil. 
With heart and brain unfitted for such fortune ? 
AVhy was a burning thirst for knowledge given 
Without the means to quench it ? Why a love 
For all tilings beautiful, to be unsatisfied ? 
A craving soul, forever discontented. 



8 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

Cramped in a body, doomed to waste itself 

In sweating agony for daily bread ? 

It is a mystery I can not solve. 

What have I done that I should suffer thus ? 

If man must delve and drudge his whole life long, 

Unthinking ignorance should be his portion, 

For coarse and brutal senses bring content. 

The dullest delver in this stubborn soil. 

Stony and cold and yielding scant return, 

Is happier than I. He has no longings 

For things beyond his reach. He works ana eats 

And mates and multiplies and dies and rots, 

Caring for nothing, wanting nothing more. 

While I, with higher nature, am accurst. 

that I were the veriest fool on earth. 

Or some fierce brute to roam the wilds at large. 

Preying and preyed on — anything but this. 

The wretched thing I am. Is this God's justice ? 

My honest loving parents deem me mad; 

And mad I shall be, if I am not now — 

Mad, raving mad, unless there come a change. 

They can not understand me and my ways, 

And fret and worry me with pious texts. 

To teach me patience and obedience 

To God's decrees — the Puritan's last hold, 

When reason fails him. So the faithful Turk, 

Driven to extremity, folds his arms and cries, 

Allah is great ! and waits the inevitable doom. 

But I am neither Puritan nor Turk, 

And scarce a Christian, though with Christian breeding. 

1 fail to see why I should be decreed 
A life of constant struggle and despair, 
While others bask in all that makes life joyful. 
If this be fate, I will make war on fate. 

Fate is my foe, and I will conquer him. 

This is my twentieth birthday. One more year 

Will free me from the thraldom of the law, 

Which makes me still a child, though old in thought 

And hard experience. Then I shall be free, 

A man, at least in name, and free to leave 



Scene III.] THE COQUETTE. 9 

The home, no longer happy with my presence — 
The home, to which my waywardness brings tears. 
Home is no longer home when discord reigns. 
Then will I seek the crowded haunts of men 
And test the strength of fate. I can but die, 
Arid life, unsatisfied, is worse than death. 

[(S'ee.s Lucy advancing, her Maid behind. 
Ha ! what is that ? A phantom of the brain, 
Which, over wrought, brings strange and wondrous visions? 
Can that be flesh and blood, and yet so fair ? 
Is heaven mocking me with shadowy forms ? 

Lucy. Your pardon, gentle Sir, for this intrusion. 
I fear we mar your studies. 

Henry. Not a whit. 
The darkness ever greets the coming dawn 
With welcome. I was startled, not displeased. 
I am unused to beauty, such as yours. 
And doubted, first, it was a thing of earth. 
You flashed upon me like a light from heaven, 
And I was dazzled and confounded quite. 

Lucy. A truce with compliments. I thought they flour- 
In cities only, such as I have left [ished 
To taste the pleasures of a simpler life. 
And breathe a purer air. My. father has taken 
The vacant cottage, which is near at hand, 
To pass away the heated summer season, 
And find some sport in angling for the trout. 
For which, I understand, this stream is famous. 
Do you like angling ? 

Ilenry. Do I like it, lady ? 
I dote upon it. 'Tis my chief delight. 
Next to my books. When I can steal a day, 
Or but an hour, from labor on the farm. 
With rod in hand, I hasten to some brook. 
Whose limpid waters thread the meadows green. 
Or dash from mountain heights through shady woods, 
Foaming and sparkling down their rocky channel. 
With here ^.nd there a mirrored pool of rest, 
In which the speckled monarch loves to dwell. 
To creep with noiseless step and eager eye 



10 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

And throbbing heart till you the point obtain — 
To poise the rod, to deftly cast the fly, 
To dance it lightly over the glassy depths, 
To watch the rise, the lightning flashing leap, 
And, with an easy motion of the wi'ist. 
Secure your prey and land him on the bank. 
Still struggling, leaping, panting at your feet — 

'tis a joy that language fails to paint; 
And, lady, I have scarce had other joy 
Than this till now. 

Lucy. Why you grow eloquent 
With memory of the sport. But did you ever 
Eeflect upon the anguish of the fish ? 
Is it not cruel ? Has he done you harm ? 

Henry. No, none to me — and yet I hardly deem 
The sport a cruel one — I have reflected. 
It is a law of nature. One thing preys 
Upon another, yet the world goes on. 
What harm has ever the defenceless fly 
Done to the fish, that he should watch his coming. 
His playful flutterings over the crystal waters, 
And gulp him with a dash ? It is his food. 
The trout devours the fly and we the trout. 
True anglers have been famed for tender hearts 
And contemplative minds. Eemember Walton, 
The good old Isaac. Have I answered you ? 

Lucy. At least we will not further argue it. 
My father says the same. He will be glad 
To make you his companion in the sport. 
And I, if not too far presuming, I 
Should sometimes like to add my helpless presence. 
'Twould be some glory to begin my lessons 
Under so skilled a master of the art, 
Could you consent to take so dull a pupil. 

Henry. Command me when you will. I scarce deserve 
So high an honor, but shall be most proud 
In any way to serve both you and yours. 

1 fear your sojourn in this neighborhood j. 
Will soon grow wearisome, and you will long 
For city pleasures and a gayer life. 



Scene III.] THE COQUETTE. 11 

Lucy. Not likely, with so much to cheer and charm 
In country scenery and rural pastimes. 
The flowers and sunshine, the refreshing breeze, 
Free from polution's taint, the hills and vales 
In emerald robed, the woods and waterfalls, 
So full of life and beauty, musical birds. 
To wake me early with their morning songs, 
And you to be my knight in sylvan sports 
And perilous walks by mountain precipices — 
Not likely, with such prospects in the future. 
But may I crave the subject of your studies, 
So rudely interrupted by our coming ? 

Henry. The plays of Shakspeare — nature's second self. 
In all her loveliness and mysteries 
Of mind and matter. 

Lucy. Then you love the drama. 
And so do I, and we will read together, 
"When tired of angling or the mountain walk; 
Or, rather, you shall read and I will listen. 
At home, the theater is my delight. 
For this I bless the city's opportunities. 
There come the great expounders of the drama. 
You should see Booth in Richard, Kean in Hamlet, 
And Cooper in Virginius — O 'tis rare 
And wonderful. 

Henry. I doubt it not, sweet lady, 
And envy you such pleasure. I have longed 
To see these mighty masters, but in vain. 
Chained and secluded in my mountain home. 

Ljucy. I will describe them to you in our walks 
Hereafter. But 'tis time I should return. 
Jenny, we must not longer interrupt 
The student's meditations. So, good-bye. 
We shall be glad to see you at our cottage. 
My father's name is Petway — Lucy, mine. 

Llenry. And mine is Henry Howland, at your service. 
Good-bye. The sky will darken as you go. 

Lucy. Your flattery will make me vain. Bye, bye. 
[ Waving a k\ss ivith her Juind. — Exeunt Lucy and Jenny. 

Henry. A new existence burns within my veins. 



12 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

I feel uplifted from this murky earth. 

I could leap over mountains, fly in the air, 

Do anything and everything — what is it ? 

Can this be love, so sudden and so strong ? 

I will go homeward — I can read no more — 

My brain is whirling — Lucy, Lucy, Lucy — 

What a sweet name — it fills the mouth with nectar. 

\Exit, murmuring, Lucy, Lucy. 

Scene IV. — Kitchen of the Farm House. — An liumhle Din- 
ner Table set out. 

Farmer Howland and Wife. 

Ruth. It is time Henry was returning. The dinner will 
be cold, but it will not be my fault. He knows the dinner 
hour, and should come home. I almost dread his coming, 
too. After these lonely rambles, he is more moody and 
fretful than ever. \^Singing heard outside. 

Hoidand. Hark ! What is that ? It sounds like Hen- 
ry's voice ; and singing, too, a lively tune. Bless the boy ! 
How much good it does me to know he is happy. 

Enter Henry. 

Henry What, mother, have I kept you waiting ? Never 
mind the cold dinner, if it is my birthday. I can eat any- 
thing. My walk has sharpened my appetite amazingly. 
I am twenty, to-day, and feel like a man, and as good as a 
king, if not so rich. Mother, did you ever dance in your 
younger days ? \^Da7ices. 

Ruth. My dear child, what has happened ? You look 
so excited and happy. 

Henry. I have been in heaven, mother. I have seen 
an angel, and talked to her face to face. She has flooded 
me with light, and filled ray soul with ecstacy. 

Ruth. Gracious goodness ! Is the boy crazy ? Have 
you lost your wits, Henry ? Don't talk so extravagantly. 
What is the matter ? 

Henry. I believe I am a little demented, mother, but no 
wonder. I have seen the most beautiful creature of God's 
creation — so gracefu^l, so gentle, so sweet, so everything. 



Scene IV.] THE COQUETTE. 13 

Ruth. What — only a woman, Henry ? Siirely there is 
no one in this neighborhood who could work you up to such 
a pitch of excitement, and put you beside yourself. You 
know all the girls around here, and I never knew you to 
notice them in the least like other boys of your age. Who 
can it be ? 

Henry. You know the cottage, not far off, built by a 
city banker, some years ago, who died, it is said, without 
ever occupying it. It has been taken by a rich merchant 
from New York for the summer, and to-day I met his daugh- 
ter with her maid, strolling in the woods. the loveliest 
thing man's eyes ever looked on. 

Ruth. Ta^e care, my boy. These city ladies are not 
for such as you. Don't let her interest you too much. Keep 
your heart whole for some virtuous country girl, fit for your 
station and domestic life. The fine ladies of the city are 
too gay for a country boy, aye, and deceitful, too, I have 
lieard. O Henry, beware in time. 

Henry. Mother, you do her injustice. Could you but 
see her — could you hear her talk. She has no pride, and 
loves the country already. Her father is devoted to an- 
gling, and I am to go with him and show him the mountain 
streams and the favorite haunts of the trout. And Lucy — 
that is her name — she is to go with us, sometimes, and I am 
to be her teacher in the gentle art; and we are to read to- 
gether in the woods, and — 0, will it not be paradise ? 

Ruth. Aye, my son, with the serpent in it, I fear. What 
time have you for such idle doings ? How will the farm 
go on, and you loitering away the days in fishing and ram- 
bling in the woods ? Henry, you forget how poor we are, 
and how we must all work for our living. 

Hoivland. Come, come, wife. Don't let us anticipate 
evil. All may turn out for the best. I can trust Henry. 
He ought to have a little amusement at his age. I say let 
him go occasionally to the woods, and hunt and fish with 
the city folks, if he and they wish it. It will do him no 
harm. I will work all the harder and make up for lost time. 
He is our only child, and can claim some indulgence. We 
were once young ourselves, wife. Let us eat and be 
thankful. ^7'hey sit dou-v at the TahJe. — Curtrn'n falls. 



14 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

Scene V. — A Parlor in the Cottage. 
Mr. Petway and Mrs. Petway. 

Mr. Petway. How pleasant it is to get out of the city at 
this season of the year, to leave the dust and the heat and 
the endless noise behind you, to be free from business cares 
and anxieties, and to enjoy the freshness of the country, 
with its healthy rides and walks, and the hunting and fish- 
ing. Pshaw ! your crowded watering places are nothing 
in comparison — nuisances, Mrs. Petway, nuisances, nothing- 
more — the city itself is preferable. 

Mrs. Petway. I beg leave to differ with, you, Mr. Pet- 
way. To me the country is very stu^Did, very insipid. No 
society, no refinement, nothing to interest one that I can 
discover. Think of bringing our daughter, Lucy, the belle 
and pride of New York, to such a place as this ! She will 
become brown as an Indian, and as coarse and rude as any 
of the farmers' daugliters before the summer is over. You 
will regret yet not taking my advice and going to Saratoga. 
Lucy might have met there society worthy of her and of us. 

Mr. Petway. Saratoga ! fiddlesticks ! I think the worst 
part of the city go there — the sharps and the flats, the 
knaves and the fools. What are the amusements ? Dan- 
cing, flirting, drinking, gambling, and — I will not say what 
else, Mrs. Petway. Talk of Lucy, the darling; she'll do 
well enough here — yes, a great deal better than at any of the 
fashionable resorts of dissipation and ffivolty. Why, she 
is looking a hundred per cent prettier already with early 
rising, morning walks, and mountain air. She is out now, 
with Jenny. I saw them running towards the hills, with 
footsteps light as the fawn's. Lucy is delighted with the 
country — she has some of her father's good taste in that. 
And here she comes, the darling, brighter and sweeter than 
ever, decked with flowers, and rosy with exercise. 

Enter Lucy and Jenny. 

Lucy. papa, I have had such a delightful stroll, and 
have met with such an adventure. I have good news for 
you, papa. You must know, Jenny and I wandered about 



Scene V.] ' THE COQUETTE. 15 

in the hills, and suddenly we came upon such a handsome 
young man, with his book in hand, standing on the bank 
of a clear mountain stream, and looking as moody and fierce 
as the hero of a novel or play. When he saw us, he seemed 
frightened — didn't he Jenny ? 

Jenny. Yes, Miss, indeed he did. 1 took him for a 
poor lamented creature, who had got out of the Lunar 
Asylum. 

Lucy. No more crazy than you or I, Jenny ; only a stu- 
dent. He had been re'ading Shakspeare, papa. How 
prettily he did talk after getting over his scare. I asked 
him if he was fond of angling, and you should have heard 
him on that point. He was so eloquent, so enthusiastic ! 
He will suit you exactly, papa. I told him your passion for 
angling, and he has promised to go with you and show you 
all the best places. He lives near by, a farmer's son, I be- 
lieve; poor, no doubt, but seems educated above his station. 
Papa, you must patronize him. 

Mr. Petivay. So I will, darling. The very thing I wanted. 
I must see the young fellow, and make arrangements for a 
day's fishing. 

Lucy. And, papa, may I not sometimes go with you, 
and see how you take in the speckled beauties ? 

Mr. Petway. I don't know about that, Lucy. Ladies 
are poor anglers. They can't keep silent, you know. Their 
tongues will be always wagging, wagging, wagging. They 
frighten the shy things, as you did the young fellow to-day. 
Ha ! ha ! They can take in the beaux, darling, but not the 
trout. no. 

Lucy. 0, but, papa, I will be still as a cat after a mouse. 
I will creep and step softly along like pussey. Do say yes, 
papa. Now you will please your own little Lucy. You 
know I am so much like you, papa. 

Mr. Petway. You irresistible little coaxer. "Well, well, 
we will see about it, after a trial or two. 

Mrs. Petivay. I am astonished, Mr. Petway, that you 
should encourage our daughter in any such folly. She 
ought not to roam about in the woods, even with Jenny. 
She did very wrong to speak to the yo^^ng fellow, or make 
liis acquaintance. She should remember who she is — the 



16 THE COQUETTE. [Act I. 

only daughter of the richest merchant in New York — and 
to "be associating with a country bumpkin ! 

Mr. Petway. Poh ! Mrs. Petway. Recollect that I came 
from the country, and a poor boy at that, if I am now a 
merchant prince, as they call me. Lucy will be safe with 
me, I should think, and it will not hurt her if she does talk 
to a young farmer, or country bumpkin, as you call him. 
"When she marries, she will take one of her own class and 
condition, of course. 

Airs. Petway. If you did come from the country, Mr. 
Petway, you, too, should recollect that I am of the blood of 
the Rivingstons and Van Ninkles, the best blood of the 
city, Mr. Petway. 

Mr. Petway. Very well — all right, no doubt, but that 
will not prevent me and Lucy from having a good time of 
it in the country, and a bit of fun now and then — aye, my 
darling ? 

Lucy. Thanks, papa, a million thanks. And, mama, 
don't trouble yourself about me. I can take good care 
of myself — you may be sure of it, brought up as 1 have 
been under the careful eye of so wise a mother, and so kind 
and good to me, too, mama. ^Kissing her.^ There, now, 
I will be such a nice, prudent, lady-like girl, just like my 
dear mama was at my age. ^Kisses her again. 

Mrs. Petway. You and your father always will have 
things your own way, but I wipe my hands of the whole 
matter. Go to your room, Lucy, and change that dress. 
Jenny, see that she is presentable at dinner. "We must 
keep up some forms of propriety, if we are in the country, 
and not forget all the rules of society. 

Mr. Pehvay. Rules of humbug ! We came here to en- 
joy ourselves, and we will have a good time of it, wont 
we, Lucy ? 

Lucy. Yes, papa, that we will. Good-bye, till dinner. 

^LJ.xeunt. 

END OF ACT I. 



Scene I.] THE COQUETTE. 17 



ACT II . 

Scene I. — Kitchen of the Farm House. 
Farmer Howland ayid Wife. 

Ruth. The summer has gone at last, and I am glad of 
it. I wish these city folks would go with it, and trouble 
us no more. Half of Henry's time has been thrown away 
on them, and with all your hard work, husband, not half a 
crop will be made. I am out of all patience with these do- 
ings. I told you how it would be. Henry is not fit for 
anything. He is either in the garret or cellar — always up 
or down — one day mad with joy and the next with gloom. 
That fine city lady will make a wreck of him. The sooner 
she goes the better. Would to Heaven she never had come. 

Hotvland. I can't deny the truth of most you say, wife. 
The crops have suffered for want of sufficient labor and 
attention. Too much of our boy's time has been spent 
fishing and rambling about with these city gentry. I have 
talked to him again and again, but it does no good. He is 
headstrong and flies into a passion at the least reproof. But 
the frost is coming and they will be going, thank the Lord, 
and then, perhaps, things may change. They can hardly 
be worse, anyhow. 

Ruth. . yes, you can see it now, when the mischief is 
done, but you upheld the boy at first. There he is out again 
to-day, when the work is so pressing. I will give him a 
piece of my mind when he comes back, sure. 

Enter Henry. 

So another day is lost, Henry, with your dancmg atten- 
dance on these city grandees, who can afford to be idle, 
and who care for nothing but their own pleasure, and never 
think of the injury they are doing poor people like us. 
Here we are, with half a crop, while you have been wast- 
ing day after day, following a heartless flirt, who is making 
a fool of you. 

Revrii. Stop there, mother. I will not bear this. Not a 



18 THE COQUETTE. [Act IL 

word against her. Abuse me if you will, I am used to it, 
but breathe not her name except with honor. She has 
neither lured me nor deceived me. She is all nobleness 
and truth. I have but followed my own inclinations. I 
am indebted to her for the little gratification life has af- 
forded me, and you begrudge me this. 

Ruth. I speak for your own good, Henry, as well as 
ours. You ought to know that this girl would never think 
of marrying you, a poor country boy. You have told us 
of her proud mother and her grand ways, of her contempt 
for the country and her coldness to you. Break off from 
this connection, and be an independent man, if you are a 
poor one. Forget it all. 

Henry. Mother, I can not and will not. I may forget 
my God, but not Lucy Petway. She has raised me from 
the pit of darkness into the light of Heaven. I can no more 
stifle the throbbings of my heart than I can create it anew 
or change it to stone. Talk to me no more — I shall be 
guilty of blasphemy, if you go on in this way. 

Ruth. You have blasphemed already when you talk of 
forgetting your Maker for a frail thing of earth. Henry, 
listen to your mother's prayers. Will you give up parents 
and home and all for the new friends of an hour ? Will 
you bring your father and me to want and sorrow and 
the grave ? 

Henry. I am your son, mother, not your slave. I will 
follow my heart if it lead me to the devil and damnation. 
If I can have no peace here, I will go elsewhere — anywhere 
to avoid this constant lecturing and torment. I will get 
out of the way before I curse the mother who bore me. 

\^Exit Henry. 

Hoivland. It is no use, wife. You only make matters 
worse. Do let the boy alone. God only knows what will 
become of him. We have done our duty. Let us leave 
results with Providence. Poor Henry ! I could give my 
life for him. that I were rich for his sake. 

Ruth. Ah me ! Ah me ! God help us ! 



Scene IL] THE COQUETTE. 19 

Scene II. — A Chamber in the Cottage. 
Lucy at ease in a Rocking Chair, Jenny on a Stool sewing. 

Lucy. This is comfortable after my long walk. It is a 
nice thing, after all, to be rich, and have nothing to do but 
to be happy. I have passed a pleasant summer here. I 
should not have enjoyed myself half so much at the Springs, 
where mama wanted to go. I feel so well, so strong, so full 
of life, so — so — I don't know how, Jenny. Sometimes I 
think I am half in love. 

Jenny. One would suppose you were three or four halfs 
in love, the way you've been going on with that liandsome 
young man, Miss, fishing and strolling about, and reading 
theater plays and romantical verses together, like a pair of 
turcle doves. You've Just made a convenience of me, and 
I've got many a scold iroiw your lady mother, Miss, that I 
have. 

Lucy. You are a good girl, and make the best of lady 
maids — only you are not quite blind enough sometimes. 
You should shut your eyes, Jenny, when a lover is about. 
The men are such presuming creatures, if you give them 
the least encouragement. But you must say, Jenny, that 
Henry is a model of modesty and propriety. You have 
never seen him attempt to kiss my hand, even, which those 
fops in the city have done a hundred times, and nothing is 
thought of it there. You can't say I have done wrong — 
not a bit. of it — ever so little a bit. 

Jenny. In course not. But you have looked mighty 
sweet on that young man, and you have talked mighty 
sweet to him, too, for I have heard you. Miss; and I've 
seen you walking arm in arm with him, and you leaned up 
to him mighty close ; and if he's not dead in love with you, 
then I don't know nothing about it. Miss, and I've had some 
'sperience. 

Lucy. yes, I remember — the sad affair with Terrence. 
But how can I help it, if the men will adore me ? What 
could I do, Jenny ? There was nobody else here, and 
Henry was so handsome, and so frank, and so honest — so 
different from my city beaux, though not so well dressed 



20 THE COQUETTE. [Act II. 

and so fashionable, to be sure. Indeed, I do like him, 
Jenny, but then you know mama would never consent to 
such a match, nor papa either, though he does like the 
young man, and defends him against mama. But he ex- 
pects me to marry some notable rich man, and that is what 
I shall have to do one of these days, I suppose. Hi, ho ! 
But why should I not enjoy myself with those I like in the . 
meantime ? Heniy thinks me perfection. 

Jenny. Well, Miss, you city ladies may think this all 
right, but us, poor common folks, have different ways of 
thinking about it. And how will Henry feel, when he 
finds out it's all talk and no cider ? I pity the poor fellow, 
myself, I do; I wouldn't give him for the whole batch of 
your city dandies. 

Lucy. I pity him too, Jenny, and I am afraid I love 
him a little. I wish he was rich and lived in the city, and 
moved in society. Of course I can't marry him as he is — 
that is impossible — but I will try and make him as happy 
as I can as long as I stay here. Papa says we must leave 
before long, and mama is so impatient to return. I believe 
they are now discussing the matter in the parloi* — I think 
I can hear mama's voice on its high pitch. I must go and 
learn the result. I must see Henry again before we go. 
Jenny, lay down your work, and get ready for a walk. 
You can stay a little behind while I talk with Henry. 

\^Ex.eunt. 



Scene III. — The Parlor of the Cottage. 

Mr. Petway and Mrs. Petway. V 

Mrs. Petway. Mr. Petway, I tell you we must go back 
to the city immediately — must, I say; and you will under- 
stand me, sir. It was against my express wish and 
judgment that we came here, where I have been a complete 
nonentity, entirely secluded from society or the least enjoy- 
ment, while you have been regaling yourself with coarse 
and vulgar country amusements, and encouraging our 
daughter, Lucy, to participate in them. Her association 
with that mannerless rustic, Henry Howland, is outrageous, 



Scene IV.] THE COQUETTE. 21 

Mr. Petway, outrageous sir, and you have sanctioned it, 
Mr. Petway. Can you deny it ? 

Mr. Petway. I have no inclination to deny it, my dear. 
J don't agree with you about the terrible nature of the as- 
sociation. Henry Howland is a fine, manly fellow, and the 
best angler I ever met with. He has been of great service 
to me, and I have relished his society very much. He is 
very intelligent, let me tell you, and has read more books 
already, than any dozen of your city fashionables put to- 
gether, or ever will read. And as for Lucy — whew ! you 
don't know the girl, if she is your own child. She can take 
care of herself anywhere, the darling. Harm to Lucy — 
pshaw ! I am more afraid of harm to Henry, poor fellow. 
I don't see how he could help falling in love with the beau- 
tiful little witch, and, of course, that would be a misfortune 
to him, for marrying Lucy would be out of the question. 
Mrs. Petway, don't worry yourself needlessly. 

Mrs. Pettvay. I shall v.'orry myself, Mr. Petway, until 
we leave this place, and are relieved from this degrading 
association. 

Mr. Petway. Very well — then we will leave, and as for 
me, I shall be very sorry for it. I love the country. I 
was born there — my boyhood w^as passed in it — 1 can't 
help it, and I don't want to help it, and I don't care who 
knows it. But we will go, Mrs. Petway, we will go. 

» ^Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — The Woods, and a Mountain Stream. 
Henry and Lucy sitting side hy side. 

Henry. This is the hallowed spot where first we met, 
And here we part forever. 

Lucy. Why forever ? 
Have you grown weary of me ? Have I fallen 
So low in favor, that you should desire 
To see me never more — to blot me out 
From heart and memory — can this be so ? 

Henry. How can you ask such questions? Are you blind? 
Have I not worn my heart upon my face ? 
Has it not spoken in every word and act ? 



22 THE COQUETTE. [Act II. 

What need to say, I love you, with a strength 
And deep intensity beyond all words ? 
The very breath I breathe is full of love. 
It glows in every drop of blood within me. 
It beats in every pulse — I am all love, 
And love for joii — and can you question it ? 
Life was a burden to me when you came. 
You found me desolate and mad with fate, 
A raging storm of passion and despair. 
You raised me to an atmosphere of calm 
And light and joy supreme, till I forgot 
Myself and what I was, all else but you. 
But now, when you must leave me, I awake 
To bitter consciousness of what I am. 
And hope is dying in me. You will go. 
And, in the city's whirl of wild delights. 
Forget the farmer's son, forget his love. 
Forget our rambles by this mountain stream. 
Our pleasant studies and our converse sweet, 
All that is stamped red hot upon my brain. 
And which eternity can not efface — 
You will forget it all — but how can I ? 

Lucy. Why will you talk thus, Henry ? Have I seemed 
So light and frivolous, that you should doubt 
The love I bear you ? 0, you do me wrong, 
A grievous wrong, and sadden me to tear*. [TFeeps. 

Henry. Forgive me, Lucy, I was on the rack. 
No torture ever equalled doubt and fear 
In lover's minds. I was beside myself 
At thought of losing you. I am so low 
And you so high in station, you so rich 
And I so poor, a tiller of the soil 
For meager sustenance, how could I hope 
That you could set at nought ambition's lures, 
The wish of parents, suitors' importunities, 
The proud exclusiveness of class and fashion, 
Society's rude comments and its sneers, 
For humble love like mine ? 

Lucy. You judged me rashly. • 
Has ever Lucy been to you unkind ? 



Scene IV.] THE COQUETTE. 23 

Has she been proud, or arrogant, or cold ? 
What have I done to waken this suspicion 
Of guile and faithlessness ? I am too simple 
In my affection, and you hold it lightly. 

Henry. I hold the smallest atom of your love 
Dearer than all the riches of this earth 
And all its honors. You have been to me 
All gentleness, and kindness, and affection. 
There is no music like the melody 
Of words from your sweet lips — no sunshine warms 
And brightens every object like your smile. 
Your grace and beauty have no parallels. 
With you, I have been lost to all the world, 
And all the world is nothing without you. 

Lucy. Henry, how you flatter your poor Lucy, 
And yet, how sweet is flattery from you. 
I quaff the honeyed draught and thirst for more. 
To lovers, nothing seems extravagant. 
And we have been so happy ! How the hours 
Have glided by me in these fragrant shades, 
Beside the murmuring waters, and with you 
To charm my ear with sweeter murmurings. 
Love knows no solitude — it is a world 
Within itself. And you do love me, Henry ? 

Henry. that the boon of wealth and power were mine. 
That I might prove the vastness of my love. 

Lucy. Come to the city, Henry. You can make 
A name and fortune there — my father did. 
He, too, was poor, a young adventurer. 
Though now the richest merchant known on 'change. 
Come to the city — 'tis the place to rise in. 
There toil and genius meet a due reward. 
Come to the city — if a farmer's son. 
You are a prince in nature. I will be 
Your star of hope and promise — come to me. 
And find a welcome ever in my heart. 
Which will be sad without you — say you will. 
Dear Henry, say it, we shall meet again ? 

Henry. Yes, if within the reach of human will 
And human strength. Living, 1 will be with you; 



24 THE COQUETTE. [Act IL 

Dying, still with yon in my latest thought. 
Farewell ! I never yet have asked one favor 
In testimonial of our mutual love. 
Dear Lucy, may I kiss this little hand ? 

Lucy, Yes, and my lips, too, Henry, now we part. 

Henry. My life, my more than heaven ! 

Lucy. Yours, yours forever ! 

YTliey emhrace. — Curtain falls. 

Scene V. — Kitchen of the Farm House. 
Farmer HowLAND, his Wife, and Heney. 

Henry. Don't talk to me. I tell you I will go. No 
earthly power can stop me. If I stay here, I shall cut my 
throat or hang myself. Why would you detain me ? Only 
a few months, and I shall be of age. Of what account are 
these ? While I remain, I can do no good, and may do 
evil. Let me go, with your blessing, if I can have it, if 
not, with your curse upon me. 

Ruth. My child ! my Henry ! How can you leave us ? 
What new madness is this ? Who can ever love you like 
your mother; who watch over you in sickness, who soothe 
you in sorrow, like her ? That it should come to this ! 
my only one, to whom I gave life and nursed upon my 
my bosom ! that he should give me up for strangers and 
wanderings — God knows where. it will kill me ! 

Henry. What is the gift of life with unceasing torment ? 
You can not think for me, mother, you can not feel for me — 
I must think and feel and act for myself. If you love me, 
let me go, and let the consequences rest on me alone. You 
will not be responsible for them. 

Howland. But, my son, how can you go without means ? 
You have no money — we have no money. We can barely 
make both ends meet at the close of the year. This year, 
I fear we shall be in debt. Have you thought of this, my 
son ? If you must leave your old father and mother, wait, 
at least, until we can earn some money for you to go on. 

Henry. When will it ever be better ? If I wait for this, 
I shall wait till I am gray and wrinkled. Every moment 
I remain seems an eternity. 



Scene 1.] THE COQUETTE. 25 

Howland. But what can you do, my son, how travel 
without money — how live ? 

Henry. I will work my way somehow — I will walk, I 
will go hungry and cold, I will beg, do anything but steal. 
But go I must and will. I will go to the great city, and 
rise from poverty and obscurity, or die in the attempt. 

•Raih. my child, my child ! you will die, and we shall 
never see you again. My curse upon her who has stolen 
your heart from us. 

Henry. Mother, kill me if you will, but spare her. 
Curse not the innocent. This is worse than all. 1 will 
not stay a minute longer under this roof. Fill it with 
curses, if you please, when I can hear them no longer. 

^Starts to go. 

Howland. Stay, stay, my son. You must not leave us 
thus. You shall go, Henry, and with your father's bless- 
ing; and not as a beggar, either, or an outcast from your 
home. The Howlands never begged, nor shall you. I will 
mortgage the old farm and raise the money for you. You 
shall have enough to live on till you can make your way. 
Be easy, Henry, your mother loves you with her whole 
soul, as well as I. Be calm, my son, you shall go as soon 
as I can raise the money. 

Rnth. my God ! "What will become of him and us. 
Pardon, pardon me, Henry, I knew not what I said. How 
can I give you up ! [Emhracing hi/n.'\ God bless you, my 
child, my child, God bless you ! \^Cur tain falls. 

END OF ACT II. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — New York City. — A Private Club Room. 

Courtney Smythe and Symple Plush sitting at a Table, 
with Bottle, Glasses, and Cigars. 

Flush. Smythe, my good fellow, how did you manage 
to get over the summer ? It was deuced hot here, 'pon my 



26 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

honor, Smytlie, and awful dull — nothing doing in the high- 
er circles, and eveiy fashionable place of amusement closed. 
Did you follow the divine Lucy ? 

Sm.ythe. Not I. Old Petway somehow got the idea in- 
to his head that he would go to the country and rusticate — 
hunt, fish, etc., and, in spite of the opposition of his aristo- 
cratic wife, he had his own way, as old Petway alv/ays will 
when he gets his back up. This was not in my line, you 
know, so, after taking an affectionate leave of the young 
Pet., I went off to the Springs, and consoled myself with 
cards, champagne, and a little waltzing and flirting. 

Plush. Petway can't entirely throw off his country 
breeding, Smythe. Occasionally a little coarseness will 
show itself in spite of the city polish. Hunting and fish- 
ing ! How exceedingly low and vulgar ! They soil the 
hands and injure the complexion. . A gentleman should 
look like he did nothing and could do nothing but enjoy 
himself. He should look delicate and wear kid gloves, and 
have a little of the bouquet aroma about him — he should 
be something like me, Smythe. 

Smythe. Well, I believe it is conceded that you dress 
finer than any gentleman of the city, and I quite agree with 
you about hunting and fishing. I have no taste for such 
rough amusements. Give me a bottle of champagne, with 
a pack of cards, a fast horse, and a bet now and then on 
the race course, with balls and theatricals to diversify, and 
a flirtation or so to give a zest to things generally, and I 
can manage to get along pretty well till I marry. But, by 
the way, I am thinking it is about time I was settling down 
in life. I have spent already a good half of the fortune 
my father left me. It is not unfashionable yet to mary, is 
it, Plush ? — provided you. get a rich wife, eh ? 

Plush. No, but it depends all on the proviso, my good 
fellow. I have an idea of doing something that way, my- 
self, Smythe. Old Petway's fortune would make a hand- 
some addition to my income, and the divine Lucy is not 
insensible to my attractions. She knows the fit of a coat 
and the proper tie of a cravat as well as any lady in the 
city. 

Smythe. Hold there, Plush, that will never do. I have 



Scene L] THE COQUETTE. 27 

a sort of vested right to Lucy. My father always intended 
that I should marry her. It was a kind of family under- 
standing before his death. He and old Petway were great 
friends. -It is my house in which the Petways have been 
passing the summer. The matter is as good as fixed. Lucy 
will marry to please her parents, and I am their man. 
Hands off in that direction. But what makes you imagine 
that Lucy has any particular liking for you ? 

Plush/ Why, my good fellow, she is always compli- 
menting -me on my dress and appearance. She actually 
told me once that my whiskers would be a fortune of 
themselves, anywhere. She said, too, that I reminded her 
of the picture of Judas Iscariot, the beloved disciple, and 
the handsomest one of them all ; so she said, 'pon my honor 
she did. But I'll give her up, Smythe, to you — it is n,o 
consequence to me, you know. I can succeed anywhere. 

Smythe. Very complimentary, to be sure, but then Lu- 
cy, you know, is in the habit of saying pleasant and agree- 
able things to all -her admirers, and perhaps she meant 
nothing serious by it. However, I am very much obliged 
to you for declining in my favor, for I should dislike to 
have so formidable a competitor. So, I hope, if any little 
difficulties should lie in my way, wdiich I have no reason 
to anticipate, however, you will give me your valuable as- 
sistance, and help me out. Can I count on you ? 

Plush. Certainly, certainly, my good fellow, you can 
rely on me, 'pon my honor, you can. I will put you through, 
Smythe. I flatter myself no gentleman has more influence 
in the high circles than I have. The ladies call me the ir- 
resistible Plush ! 

Smythe. Thanks, many thanks, for your kind offer. 
But did you know the Petways have returned to the city ? 

Plush. Ah ! indeed. We must be tlie first to call on 
them and welcome them back. It will be very gratifying 
to the divine Lucy — don't you think so, Smythe ? 

Smythe. Of course. We must call as soon as possible 
after they get a little rest. I am in earnest about this 
marrying matter — remember that. Good morning, my 
dear Plush. 

Plush. Au revoir, my good fellow, au revoir. \^Exeunt. 



28 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

Scene II. — A Chamher in Pehvay^s Mansion. 
Lucy Petway and Jenny. 

Lucy. Not two weeks at home, Jenny, and I am getting 
into my old ways again. All day long, calling and being 
called on, talking and hearing nonsense, going to parties 
and balls, to the theater and the church, and flirting at both 
with the old set of admirers. You would laugh to hear 
them, Jenny. They say they have been pining away to 
shadows during my absence. Some of them never were 
anything else, Jenny — mere shadows of humanity. But I 
have my fun out of them, don't I, Jenny ? 

Jenny. Yes, indeed, Miss. You have your fun with 
the fellows wherever you go, and wherever you be, Miss. 
You had your fun with that handsome young man in the 
country. But, may be, it wasn't such fun for him. Miss. 

Lucy. Say nothing about that, Jenny. It is rather a 
sore subject to me. I fear I went a little too far with Henry, 
the dear, honest fellow. I don't mind the sweet smiles and 
soft words I gave him — the men expect these anyhow, and 
they ought not to put much faith in them — biit, Jenny, in 
a moment of weakness, I pursuaded him to come to the 
city, and I am afraid he may come, and that would be so 
awkward and embarrassing to us all. You know mama 
can't bear him, and I can't treat Henry here as I did in the 
country — that would not do at all — and Henry is so sen- 
sitive and impetuous. What shall I do, Jenny, if he does 
come ? 

Jenny. It is not for the likes of me to be giving advice, 
Miss. As you makes your bed, so you must lie. You 
might have thought of this when you were going on so with 
poor Henry. How I do admire him myself. Miss. He is 
none of your shadows of nonentity, you were just now 
laughing about. 

Lucy. No, no. I believe Henry is really worth them 
all. But I can't marry him you know; neither papa nor 
mama would consent to that, and I shall have to treat Hen- 
ry more coldly and distantly, if he should come, and try to 
cure him of his fiery affection. How that boy does love me ! 



Scene III] THE COQUETTE. 29 

What an angel I am in his eyes ! O me ! What a funny 
world this is ! What a delusion we girls are ! You must 
keep on the look out, Jenny, and if you should hear of 
Henry's arrival, let me know it immediately. He must not 
take me by surprise. I am sure I should feel like rushing 
into his arms, if he came upon me suddenly. I think I 
will go a shopping, and see what the new winter fashions 
are. Come, Jenny. ^Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Private Cluh Room. 

Smythe and Plush at a Table. 

Smytlie. ^Ringing the Bell.^ 

Enter Waiter. 

Waiter, another bottle of wine, and some more cigars. 
SoiTiehow, I am more than usually thirsty, to-day. 

Plush. Getting in love, Smythe ? A little feverish 
about the Petway ? You don't mind that green specimen 
she picked up in the country, who has followed her here to 
exhibit his awkwardness for the amusement of the city. 
Poll ! he smells of the cows he has been milking. I feel 
like emptying my cologne bottle over him every time I 
come near him. You don't fear him, Smythe, do you ? 

Smythe. no, certainly not; but Henry Howland, the 
green specimen you allude to, if he is not very dangerous, 
is not to be despised as a competitor. I will say that much 
for him. He is ignorant of the world and not up to the 
ways of good society, but the fellow has talents, and is full 
of pluck. You had better not go too far with your sneers 
about the country and country manners in his presence. 
He has been used to labor, and his muscles are like steel. 
A blow from his fist would not feel like the tap of a fine 
lady's fan on your cheek. 

Enter Waiter, with Bottle. 

But fill up your glass. Plush. Don't grow pale at the idea. 

Take a fresh cigar. I think we are getting along .all right. 

Plush. So do I, Smythe. Here's to the divine Lucy, 

and the speedy consummation of your wishes. [ Tliey r/r/;v/,-.] 



30 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

I'll be polite to this verdant arcadian, as you desire it, my 
good fellow. He's not exactly the thing for the high cir- 
cles, you know, but, as we are obliged to meet him at the 
Petway,s, I'll notice him somewhat, for your sake, Smythe. 

Smythe. Very well, that is kind in you. You must un- 
derstand that Howland is evidently not over pleased with 
his reception at Petway's, and his experience in the city. 
He looks uneasy, and out of humor. Lucy treats him po- 
litely, but not encouragingly, though she certainly likes him. 
I suspect she flirted with him a little in the country, and 
he, not understanding the gay doings of our city belles, 
' fancied she was in love with him. But he is beginning to 
be a little enlightened. He must soon get out of money, 
for he is in no business, and not likely to find any in his 
present mood ; and he will probably leave soon in thorough 
disgust. Old Pet. is kind to him. They fished together 
in the country, I am told, but he wouldn't dream of his 
aspiring to be his son-in-law, and lady Petway looks down 
upon him with an imposing grandeur perfectly annihila- 
ting. If Howland has the spirit I give him credit for, he 
will not stand this state of things long. 

Plush. Yes, be easy, Smythe, I'll put you through all 
right, my good fellow. Let's take a stroll down Broadway 
to the Battery, and ogle the belles a little. It does them 
good, Smythe. Come along, the bottle is empty. Don't 
be disheartened. I'll see to it. You shall marry the di- 
vine Lucy, 'pon my honor you shall. [^Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Purlor at Petioai/s Mansion. 

Mr. Petway, Mrs. Petway, and Lucy. 

Mr. Petway. So another birth-day has rolled around, 
and another grand ball is to celebrate the occasion. Lucy, 
dear, I don't much like the idea of your getting so old. 
Girls used to marry in ray time at eighteen, and I am afraid 
of losing you, darling, one of these days. Courtney 
Smythe comes here pretty often, I notice, since our return 
from the country. His father and I were great cronies — 
but don't blush, darling, we'll talk of the ball, a much more 
agreeable subject to me. Have all our friends been in- 



Scene IV.] THE COQUETTE. 31 

vited ? You must see to that, Lucy. Our gallant fisher- 
man from the country, young Howland, is of course in- 
cluded. 

Lucy. No, he is not, and I think it wrong, papa, and I 
wanted to talk to you about it. Mama says it will never 
do for him to be here — that he will not feel at ease, not 
having been accustomed to such occasions and to such 
company. But will not Henry feel hurt, papa, and ought 
we not to invite him ? 

Mrs. Petivay. I will answer that question, Mr. Petway. 
Whether he may feel hurt or not is immaterial. Our own 
standing in society is the question. Lucy's birth-day par- 
ties have always been very select, as was proper they should 
be, and it will be a subject of remark, if this country fel- 
low, whom nobody knows, should be seen here, displaying 
his awkwardness and rusticity. He should not be allowed 
to visit this house at any time, and certainly not on such 
an occasion. It is preposterous to think of such a thing. 

Mr. Petway. It may be preposterous, madam, but I do 
think of it, and it shall be done — it is nothing but common 
decency, let me tell you. 1 1 shall not be said that the boy 
who was fit to be my companion in the country is not good 
enough to be admitted to my house in the city, and to wit- 
ness our daughter's happiness on her birth-day. I will not 
hear anything more on that point. I say he shall be in- 
vited; and, Lucy darling, you attend to this and see that 
Henry is here. By the way, he keeps himself too much 
aloof from me. I have seen very little of him since he 
came to the city. I am disposed to be of service to him, 
but he is so sensitive and proud, I hardly know how to go 
about it. There is too much romance, I fear, in his head. 
If I had been romantic and sentimental, I never would 
have succeeded as I have done. 1 must talk to the boy. 
Mrs. Petway, don't look so grum — you shall have all of 
your grand friends here sure — everybody you please — the 
biggest fools of them all — I don't care — but I must be 
gratified in this one thing. AVhat a splendid angler Hen- 
ry was ! 

Mrs. Petniny. I am always powerless against you and 
Lucv. Have It your own way, and take the consequences, 



32 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

Mr. Petivay. That I will, madam." But 1 must be off 
to the Exchange. Lucy darling, don't neglect anything. 
This eighteenth birth-day ball must be a decided hit. 
Money shall not be wanting, anyhow. Kiss you old father, 
darling, you don't look so happy as you did in the country. 
Anything the matter ? 

Lucy. No, papa, a little tired with so much company. 
\Kissing him.'] There, papa, take good care of yourself, 
and never mind about your little Lucy. You shall see 
how gay and happy she will be at the ball. All is right, 
now. Our friends will all be present — none shall be left 
out. Bye, bye. [^J^xeunt. 

Scene V. — The Battery. 

Henry Howland, solus. 

Henry. I should be cold this bleak December day, 
But 1 am scorching with an inward heat. 
And need fresh air. This sea breeze may revive me. 
'Tis quite unlike my native mountain wind. 
And yet reminds me of it — it is pure. 
This city stifles me, and stupefies. 
"Why came I here ? Have I been duped and fooled ? 
I dread to think it, yet am I perplexed 
And tortured with suspicion. Lucy shuns me. 
There is no doubt of that. She gives me not 
A single opportunity of speech 
With her alone. 'Tis plain that she is changed, 
Or forced to treat me with a cold politeness. 
Can she be false, a gilded, flaring lie ? 
Could she so counterfeit an honest passion, 
Fall in my arms and weep and proffer vows 
Of boundless love and lasting fealty ? 
It is -impossible. And yet, why is it 
That I am niade to feel I have no claim 
Upon her, other than the silly crowd 
That throng around her, Smythe and dandy Plush, 
And others like them, who profess to sneer 
At honorable toil and country breeding ? 
I have borne much of this for Lucv's sake — 



ScEXE v.] THE COQUETTE. 3^ 

And what have I received in recompense ? 

"Come to the city," were her parting words. 

And I have come, abandoned home and kindred, 

Come, in despite of burning prayers and tears, 

A father's grief, a mother's agonies. 

To find myself a lonely, slighted thing 

For fools to jeer at. And is this the welcome, 

Pictured and promised in the wondrous city ? 

I sicken at the thought. Day after day 

My slender means grow less. No prospect opens 

For suitable employment, and this state 

Of miserable, dubious, doubting love 

Unfits me for the duties of a man, 

Who meets and masters fortune. I must know 

My fate with certainty. I must see Lucy, 

Unwatched by other's eyes, and learn the worst. 

I'll not condemn her without explanation. 

She shall defend herself. — Ah ! who comes here ? 

Those city dandies I have met at Petway's. 

I would avoid them but I can not now. 

Enter Smythe and Plush. 

Smythe. Well met, Mr. Ho,wland. You seem courting 
the sea breeze as if you loved it. Have you ever crossed 
'the Atlantic, and travelled in Europe ? 

Henry. Never, sir. My experience of travel is limited 
to my journey from home to this city, which I begin to 
wish I had never seen. The extremes of wealth and pov- 
erty, luxury and destitution, laces and I'ags, piety and de- 
pravity, are not very pleasant to contemplate. I must 
confess I am not much charmed with city life, so far. 

Plush. You have not seen enough yet, my good fellow, 
to know how to appreciate the refinements of city society. 
You must move more in the high circles, Mr. Howland. I 
never see any depravity and destitution among the set I 
associate with — they are all the right thing — 'pon my hon- 
or — isn't that so, Smythe ? 

Smythe. Your associates are all the wealthy class, and 
you see only the rosy side of the picture. But Howland 
is right aboiit the extremes. They are incident, however. 



34 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

to every large city. The rich and the poor, the good and 
the bad, make up the world. I am sorry you do not find 
city life as agreeable as you anticipate, Mr. Howland. You 
ought, at least, to enjoy the society of your friends, the Pet- 
ways. By the way, 1 suppose you will be at the grand 
ball, in honor of the beautiful Lucy's birth-day. It will be 
a magnificent affair. Petway never spares money on such 
occasions. Tickets have issued for a crowd, as usual — but 
of course you know all about it. 

Henry. I have little inclination for such gaieties, and it 
is not likely that I shall be there, though it is possible. 

Plush. you must go, by all means, my good fellow; 
it will be the thing of the season — none but those who 
move in the high circles will be there — the very cream of 
society, Mr. Howland. No common people will be invited. 
You must go, or it might be thought you did not belong 
to that set, you see. Come, Smythe, we must be lounging 
slowly back up Broadway for the benefit of our lady friends. 
Wont you stroll along with us, Howland ? I'll give you 
the names of the city belles as they pass by us. They all 
know me. 

Henry. Thank you, no. I am not very well. I will 
stay and enjoy the sea breeze a while longer. 

\^Exeunt Smythe and Plush. 
A thousand hells are boiling in ray bosom. 
Here is more damning proof. Left out — insulted — 
No common folks invited — only the cream. 
The Smythes and Plushes ! What must be the milk. 
If such the cream of high society ! 
But soft — 'tis some time since I called at Petway's. 
Perhaps a ticket waits me at the post. 
They know not where I lodge. Let me be just, 
And not too hasty. I will look to this. 
If so, it may not be the fault of Lucy. 
Her mother hates me — there may be constraint. 
How I have loved her ! how I love her still ! 
Must love and misery be joined forever ? ^E.xit. 



Scene VI.] THE COQUETTE. ;15 



Scene VI. — Ball Room at Petwai/s Mansion. 

Mr. Petway, Mrs. Petway, Lucy, Smy^the, Plush, and 
Henry. — Other' Ladies arid Gentlemen, all finely dressed. 
Curtaiyi rises with a Cotillion in progress. — Smythe and 
Plush dancing. — Plush with Lucy. — Mrs. Petway on one 
side, very grand and imposing. — Mr. Petway on the other 
side, talking to Henry. — A pause in the Music. — They 
stand talking in Groups. 

Mr. Petway. You don't seem to enjoy yourself, Henry, 
and 1 can't say that I relish these grand balls much, my- 
self. It was far better fun when you and I were pulling 
out the trout in the mountains last summer, wasn't it ? 
Never mind, we will take a run up there by ourselves, next 
season, without being bothered with the women folks — 
shall we, Henry ? 

Henry. Perhaps so. I was tired of the country, and 
anxious to leave it, but I have not found my city experi- 
ence very enrapturing. New York is not quite the Eden I 
fancied it. 

Mr. Petivay. No, no, it is bad enough, God knows, and 
will hardly grow better with age. If it were not for my 
wife and Lucy, the darling, I would live in the country. 
But Lucy will be marrying, I suppose, before long. You 
know Courtney Smythe — we were staying in his house last 
summer. He is the son of an old friend of mine, who died 
some years ago. We used to talk about a family alliance 
some day, half in jest, but I should not wonder, the way 
things look, if it come to pass very soon. Courtney has 
been very attentive of late, and Lucy seems rather to avoid 
the subject when I allude to it, which is a pretty good sign, 
you know — but you look pale and badly to-night, Heni-y 
— not sick, I hope ? 

Henry. Yes, a little unwell, but it will pass off directly. 
Don't let me detain you from your other guests. 

Mr. Petivay. Come round to my office, Henry, soon. I 
want to talk to you, my boy. You must let me see you 
oftener. You should not overlook your old fishing com- 
rade. Cheer up. I'll go and look after the supper arrang- 



36 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

ments. "We'll take a glass of wine together presently. It 
will do you good. \Exit Pettvay. 

Plush. \^ Advancing .'\ Why, Howland, my dear fellow, 
you are not dancing to-night — how is this ? Don't they 
cultivate the Terpsichorian art in the country ? 

Henry. No, they cultivate their heads instead of their 
heels in the country. I see your city education has not 
been neglected. 

Plush. I should rather think not, Mr. Howland. I am 
allowed to be the best dancer in the city, except, perhaps, 
in the new German waltz lately come in fashion. There, 
some say, Smythe excels me, but I doubt it, Howland, I 
doubt it. You shall see, presently. The next thing on the 
programme is a waltz. [J/m.szc strikes up. 

Smythe. Shall I have the happiness of waltzing with 
you, Miss Petway ? 

Lucy. Certainly, Mr. Smythe, with great pleasure. I 
adore the waltz, and you waltz so well, Mr. Smythe. \^Turn- 
ing to Henry. '\ How sorry I am you don't dance, Mr. How- 
land, you lose such an enjoyment. You must take lessons. 

Henry. I have taken too many lessons already, Miss 
Petway. I see that I shall have to unlearn much that was 
taught me in the country. But experience is said to bring 
wisdom. . 

Smythe. Come, Miss Lucy, we are losing time and much 
pleasure. ^T hey join in the tualtz. 

Henry. Death and damnation ! How can I endui'e this? 
His arm around her Vv^aist — her little hand 
Enclasped in his — he draws her closely to him — 
Her soft curls touch his glowing cheek — their eyes 
Are swimming in a flood of ecstacy. 
They pause a moment — how she rests upon him ! 
It is too much, God, it is too much ! 
The spirit of the first born Cain is in me. 

\ Rushes out. — Curtain falls. 

ScENF. VII. — Drawing Room at Petway s. 
Henry and Lucy, seated at some distance from each other. 
Lucy. You craved a private interview — I grant it, 



Scene VIL] THE COQUETTE. • 37 

And wait your pleasure. Have you aught to say 

In explanation of your strange behavior, 

At all times since your coming to our city, 

But, more especial, at my birth-day party ? 

Is this your usual way of treating friends ? 

Your outbreak and departure from our house 

Before the supper hour, without a word 

Of formal parting or of cold excuse, 

"Was noted, and has been a fruitful subject 

For busy tongues to prate of — why was this ? \Both rise. 

Henry. No woman ever yet betrayed a man' 
But blamed him for it — it was all his fault. 
I find you no exception. I have sought 
This opportunity of private speech, 
liecause I hesitated to believe 
That Lucy Petway was the changeful thing 
Appearances denoted. It might be. 
That others' wishes ruled her, and compelled 
A conduct so at war with honest dealing. 
Have you forgotten how we parted once. 
And what you said ? It shames me to remind you. 
I would have doubted Christ as soon as you. 
For you I quarrelled with the best of mothers. 
Whose warnings were unheeded; overcame 
A doting father's wise remonstrances. 
Put him in debt and peril of great loss. 
And, with a lover's fervor and true faith. 
Came hither, to be treated as a dog, 
Who should be thankful for a cast-ofE bone, 
And whipped to silence, if he chance to growl. 
While some aew favorite is caressed and feasted. 

Lucy, Henry, this is cruel. I would be 
Your friend, if you would let me. You must see 
The difference of the city and the country. 
Here social rules contract and hedge me in. 
Forcing compliance. You must not expect 
That I can treat you but as other friends, 
Many with older claim to my regard. 
But not more loved and honored. Learn to be 
My friend and not my lover. I am not 



38 THE COQUETTE. [Act III. 

The mistress of my future destiny, 

But doomed to be what others choose to make me. 

And yet I love you, and shall love you ever. 

Think not too harshly of me — let the past 

Be as a pleasant dream — be still my friend, 

And ask no more than I am free to give. 

Henry. I thank you for this candor. Say no more. 
It comes a little late, but better now 
Than later still. I understand you fully. 
I was the object of your rural leisure. 
And served to occupy your idle hours — 
An awkward youth, but good enough to use 
When nothing better offered — a fit subject 
To practice on; simple and unsuspecting, 
A child in confidence, though a man in feeling. , 

And so you won an easy victory, 
Too easy to be valued when accomplished. 
'Tis scarce worth while to glaze the matter over. 
I was your dupe, your plaything, and your sport. 
Indeed, it is a very little thing, 
A trifling incident, not worth remembrance. 
'Tis nothing but a blasted, barren life, 
A heart worn out and broken ere its time, 
All faith in woman scattered to the winds 
As dust and ashes. You have been my idol. 
And I have worshipped you with blind devotion, 
As others have mistaken a painted image, ' 
Fashioned of mud, for a divinity. 
My eyes are opened. With contempt I turn 
My heart and back upon you. Selfish tiifler ! 
Live and remember ! That is curse enough. [^Exit Henry. 

Lucy. Too much ! too much ! but I have earned it all. 
I gather but the harvest I have sown. 
O that I could forget ! [ Curtain falls. 

END OF ACT III. 



Scene 1.] THE COQUETTE. 39 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Broadicay. — Hotel and fashionable Tailor Shop 

seen. 

Courtney Smythe, solus. 

Sinythe. Howland has quarrelled with his lady love, 
As was to be expected. So far, well. 
He roams the city with a restless look. 
As if without a purpose — full of thought, 
But having no direction or control. 
His disappointment has unsettled him. 
He knows not what to do or where to go. 
I've watched him closely — I suspect he takes 
Strong stimulents to stupefy and dull 
The sharpness of his sorrow. I have seen him 
Steal out from places of low dissipation 
In the dead hour of night. Would he were gone. 
■ I can not be mistaken. Lucy loves him. 
If I know anything, I know the sex. 
Their natui'e is peculiar, and a riddle 
To slight observers, not to the experienced. 
There is more danger in this stormy quarrel 
And wrathful separation than from intercourse, 
Occasional and formal, brief and cold. 
That old and hackneyed proverb, "Out of sight 
And out of mind," will not apply to lovers 
In near propinquity, who, chance, may meet 
At any hour, at any public place, 
Or turn of the street — they must be sundered wide, 
And possibilities be made impossible. 
I have marked Lucy, too. She stays at home 
More than is usual, wears a thoughtful brow. 
And seems unhappy. This will never do. 
I must get Howland into difficulty. 
And force him from the city. Let me think. 
He must be scant of money by this time. 
Could I entice him to some gambling house 



40 THE COQUETTE. [Act IV. 

And sweep the little left ? 'Tis worth the trial. 
Then, to avoid stai-vation, he might take 
Refuge aboard some vessel, outward bound 
To some far distant mart, and trouble me 
No farther — I will try it — it may work. 

Plush comes out of the Tailors Shoj), m a flashy netv Suit. 

Why, Plush, you look finer than a peacock with a full tail, 
expanded in all its glory. 

Plush. Yes, my good fellow. I know something about 
dress. It will never do for a gentleman to be seen wear- 
ing the same coat too long, for fear it may be thought he 
hasn't got the money or credit to buy a new one, you see. 
And the ladies, too, like it, Smythe; "fine feathers," you 
know. 

Smythe. Well, Plush, I am glad to meet you. I was 
just thinking about you. I want you to aid me a little. 
You are aware that your verdant arcadian has fallen out 
with his shepherdess. He goes no longer to Petway's, and 
is rambling round like a crazy goose. I want to get him 
out of the city for fear of an accident. His funds are ex- 
hausted, I imagine, and he has taken to drinking whisky 
and other low and vulgar liquors. Couldn't we notice him 
a little more, and pursuade him to replenish his funds with 
a little play ? We might get him to some convenient place, 
clean him out entirely, and so get rid of him forever. 
How would that do. Plush ? 

Plush. A very ingenious and gentlemanly idea, 'pon 
my honor. If you say so, we will do it. Come along, and 
we'll talk over the matter and plan it all out. Very inge- 
nious ! We'll do up this country greenhorn, 'pon my hon- 
or, we will. \^Exeu?it. 

Scene II. — Private Room in a Gambling House. — Bottle 
and Glasses on a Table. 

CouBTNEY Smythe and Sharpe Chisell. 

Smythe. You understand me, Chisell. This country 
fellow is in my way. I want him out of the city. I will 
manage to get him to your house, and you must clean him 



Scene III.] THE COQUETTE. 41 

out — you know how to do it. I have seen you manipulate 
these green-horns often enough. He knows nothing of 
cards, and you can do it in a few deals — not too suddenly, 
you know. 

Chisell. Yes, that is easy enough, but these country 
chaps are sometimes hard to handle. If they suspect some- 
thing wrong, they show fight and get up a row. You must 
save me from all damage, Smythe, if anything should 
turn up. 

Smythe. Of course. I will be present, and so will Plush. 
You know dandy Plush. I am using him to draw the fel- 
low in. A fool is very useful sometimes — he is not sus- 
pected. I'll let you know the night he is coming. We 
will stand up to you should anything happen. Our purses 
are long enough, you know, and besides I have influence 
with the city officials. 

Chisell. Very well. You may depend on me. Fix 
your time, and let me know. I'll do this little job for 
you to a nicety. I love that sort of thing. Let's take 
another drink, and go. 

Smythe. All right. Here's to the green-horn, and a 
clean skinning ! 

Chisell. Ha! ha! Very good. Here's to the green-, 
horn ! \They drink. — Exeunt. 

Scene III. — A Back Street of disreputable app)earance. 

Henry Howland, solus, looking haggard and ivild, as if from 
dis.npation. 

Henry. The prospect darkens. Little now is left 
Of the small sum my doting father gave me. 
Small did I say ? The loss will bankrupt him. 
I purposed to replace it — can I ever ? 
I see no outlet to this misery 
But death — but what would that avail to him ? 
that I could refund it and then die ! 
I've read of fortunes, grappled in one night, 
Of venturesome play, with lucky cards or dice. 
Dare I the venture make ? How it would shock 
My pious parents, if they found it out. 



42 THE COQUETTE. [Act IV. 

God bless tliem ! If I could but save them harmless, 

"What matter whether heaven or hell result ? 

I've half the mind to try it. ^See Plush advancing. 

There is Plush, 
That fashionable fool — he seems to dog me 
Of late — I meet him oftener than I wish, 
Though lately he appears exceeding kind 
A;id condescending to his country friend, 
As now he calls me. 

Plush. How are you, my good fellow ? A little down 
in the mouth ? I get so myself sometimes, 'pon my honor 
I do, friend Howland. We gentlemen, who move in the 
high circles, you know, have to spend a great deal of money 
to keep up appearances, and occasionally we get a little 
short in ready cash. But it is nothing, after all. When 
I get in that way, you' see, I always go to fortune's bank 
and make a draw upon it. I pocketed a cool $500 the 
other night, 'pon my honor, I did. Howland, my good 
fellow, did you ever try it ? Nothing wrong about it, I 
assui^e you; all fair, it's quite common among us fashion- 
ables. Smythe replenishes his purse that way often, 'pon 
my honor, he does, rich as he is. What do you say, How- 
land ? Will you try it ? It would amuse you — now it 
would. 

Henry. I have played cards for amusement, but know 
nothing of gambling. I have been taught it was wrong. 
But don't you lose as well as win at the gaming table ? 

Plush. yes, sometimes, of course. But if we are los- 
ing, we quit early and try some other time, when fortune 
is more favorable, you see. Howland, my good fellow, I 
don't like to see you moping so. Dem the women — I'm 
getting tired of them. You can't place any confidence in 
them. Now, there is Lucy Petway — gave me all sorts of 
encouragement, you see, and after all is going to marry my 
friend, Smythe, not half as well dressed or good looking 
as I am. I)em the women, I say. 

Henry. Don't talk of them. I know but one honest 
woman in the world, and that is my mother. When you 
go next to a gambling house, I don't care if I go with you. 

Plush. That is right my good fellow, I know all the 



8cENE IV.] TtlE COQUETTE. 43 

fashionable resorts. I will let you know. I can put you 
through, 'pon my honor, I can. We will have a good thing 
of it, and come away with our pockets full, to be sure we 
will. Dem the woluen — give me the cards, Howland ; they 
are much more to be depended on. Au revoir. [Exit. 

Henry. The silly popinjay ! Yet I'll go with him. 
I'll trust the devil in this immergency. 
'Tis said he favors, at first, to draw souls on. 
The mention of her name decided me. 
I have grown desperate — my brain is seething — 
I scarce know where I am or what I do — 
Nor do I care — what is there left to me ? \Exii. 

Scene IV. — A Chamber in Petway's Mansion. 

Lucy and Jenny. — Lucy sitting at a little Table, Book in 
Ha7id, looking very serious. — Jenny at her Needle Work. 

What has come over you, Miss ? You are not yourself 
at all lately. I never did see such a metamorphous. You 
used to be so lively and full of fun, and now you are as 
solemn as a funeral. What is the matter with you ? 

Lucy. I am tired and sick of this frivolous, worthless 
life of mine. I have no inclination for company or amuse- 
ments. They annoy, they disgust me. 

Jenny. So it seems, when you quit going out and shut 
yourself up in your room, and refuse to see any of your 
fashionable beaux, even Mr. Smythe, who is to marry you 
one of these days — you know you told me so yourself. 
Miss — that you ditl. 

Liocy^ No matter what I told you, Jenny. I shall not 
marry Smythe. I shall not marry anybody. I hate Court- 
ney Smythe. I hate everybody. 1 hate myself. If I were 
not so wicked, I could wish I were dead, Jenny, dead and 
buried deep in the ground, where I should cease to think 
and be at rest. 

Jenny. The Lord help you. Such a humor as you are 
in. Reading and mopmg and fretting all the time. If 
you goes on in this way, you will throw me into historic 
fits, you will. It wasn't so in the country. I wonder what 
has become of Henry. Bless my soul, if I don't believe 



44 THE COQUETTE. [Act IV. 

that is the very play -book you and Henry used to read to- 
gether, when we were in the mountains. A¥hat has iDecome 
of Henry ? 

Lucy. Henry will never come back again. I have of- 
fended him past all hope of reconciliation. He would not 
speak to me now. He would disdain to think of so faith- 
less a creature as I am. [Crying. 

Jenny. Now, don't cry. Don't put on so. If Henry is 
in the city, I will look him up and talk to him myself, Miss 
Lucy. I always did like him, and I have an admonition 
that you and Henry will marry yet. 

Lucy. Jenny, you are the best girl that ever lived. I 
think I will go to bed. I am only happy in my sleep. I 
dream of the country all night, Jenny. 

Jenny. And of something else, too, Miss Lucy — some- 
body I know. 

Lucy. How you talk, Jenny ! Come along. [^Exeunt. 

Scene V. — A Gambling Room. — A Table, loith Cards spread 
out upon it. 

Chisell behind, ivith Box and Cards. — Piles of Gold and 
Bank Notes before him. — Smythe, Plush, and Howland 
betting. — On the side of the Room, a Grate, with Fire. — 
A Poker near it. 

Chisell. Well, gentlemen, ready for another deal ? The 
bank is in bad luck to-night. Smythe, you are always for- 
tunate, and a new hand, like Mr. Howland, is almost sure 
to win. I think I am out at least a thousand. At this rate, 
I shall have to close up presently. Plush, open. another 
bottle of champagne. I am as dry as a fish out of water. 
Let's all take a drink before further business. 

[They drink. — Deal commences. 

Jlenry. I'll double my winnings or lose all on this deal. 
[Puts doiun a large sum and loses. 

Plush. Very spirited, 'pon my honor, very gentlemanly, 
isn't it, Smythe ? Howland will make a bold player — he'll 
break the bank yet — don't you think so ? 

Smythe. Yes, if his good luck continues, but it seems 
to lie changing. 



Scene V.] THE COQUETTE. 45 

^Henry continues to bet heavily through the deal, and loses 
every bet. — He rises excited at the close. 
Henry. Well, my last cent is gone. You can keep the 
money, but you cheated, sir, you cheated. 

Chisell. Take care, young man, what you say. No im- 
putations here. This is a respectable house — the best men 
of the city patronize us. 

Henry. What do I care for your respectability ? I say 
you cheated me — I saw you — you are a knave. 

Chisell. Take that, you liar. \_Str iking him. 

Henry. And that, you rogue. 

\ Strikes back and staggers Chisell, who recovers, and all 
three spring upon Henry and bear him to the floor. — 
He struggles and throws them off; snatches up the po- 
ker and knocks down, Chisell as he apjjroaches. — 
Smythe and Plush run out, crying, '■^Police! police! 
murder ! murder!" — Henry tlirotvs doivn tlie poker and 
stands with arms folded. 

Enter t!iree Policemen. 

Policeman. What is all this row about ? Why, here is 
a dead man. Who did this bloody deed ? 

Henry. I did. Is the dog dead ? 

Policeman. Yes. And we here arrest you for the mur- 
der on your own confession. 

Henry. I care not — but it was no murder. They set 
upon me, three to one. I did but defend myself — but it 
is no matter what you call it, I would do it over. 

Policeman. Secure the murderer. Take him to prison. 

\Tliey seize him. — Hreunt. 

END OF ACT IV. 



46 THE COQUETTE. [Act V. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — Broadivay. 
Two Citizens meeting. 

1st. Citizen. Good morning, my friend. 

2nd. Citizen. Grood morning, sir. Any news stirring ? 

1st. Citizen. Yes. The great murder trial, which has 
been so much talked about, terminated last night, and 
young Rowland is convicted, and will be hung. 

2nd. Citizen. Indeed ! Did you attend the trial ? 

1st. Citizen. From first to last. I felt great interest in it. 
I am one of the few who believe in Howland's innocence. 
But the testimony of Smythe and Plush, who were present 
at the occurrence, was positive. They swore that Rowland, 
because he lost his money at a fair game, became infuriated, 
seized the poker, and struck down the faro dealer, and that 
they run out, fearing for their own lives. Now, this is not 
at all pi'obable. I think it was a conspiracy between them 
and the gambler to win Howland's money, and that he 
used the poker in self defence. He has no look of the 
murderer about him. Smythe looked to me far more like 
a criminal, and I noticed both he and Plush turned pale 
and trembled while giving their testimony. But they are 
rich and belong to the upper class, and there was no rebut- 
ting evidence. It was a very one sided affair — the jury 
were not out ten minutes. 

2nd. Citizeyi. I agree with you entirely. I happen to 
know something of this case. I live near old Petway, the 
rich merchant, whose daughter is very beautiful and has 
been the belle of the city. Now I know that Smythe and 
Howland were rivals. Both visited at Petway's. How- 
land made the girl's acquaintance, I am told, last summer, 
when the family went to the country, and he followed her 
here. It is thought, gay and fashionable as she was, that 
she favored young Howland, though the son of a poor far- 
mer. It is certain she has been very much affected by the 
killino; and trial. T heard that old Petwav offered How- 



Scene II.] THE COQUETTE. 47 

land money, and wanted to employ consel for his defence, 
but the proud young fellow refused — said it was needless, 
he cared nothing about the result. It is a sad matter. I 
think with you there has been foul play and it will come to 
light some time. 

1st. Citizen. Perhaps so. But justice is becoming a 
farce now-a-days. Those who have plenty of money do as 
they please — only the poor devils are hung. 

2nd. Citizen. That is so, the more the pity, and the 
shame, too. And it is likely to grow worse, I fear. Cities 
are not like wine — age does not improve them. Good-day. 

1st. Citizen. Good-da)^, sir. \_They separate. 

Scene II. — Drawing Room, Petway's Mansion. 

Lucy reclining on a Sofa, Head resting on lier Hand, jjale 
and sad. 

Enter Courtney Smythe, unannounced. 

Lucy. [Starting up.~\ Why come you here ? Why thus 
intrude upon me ? 
This is my mother's doing. Have I not 
Denied you audience repeatedly ? 
Will you thus force yourself upon my sorrow ? 

Smythe. I come to offer you my hand and fortune. 
My heart has long been yours. Do not repulse me. 
Suif er my presence, listen to my suit. 
Have I not been your friend from early years ? 
And will you let a low adventurer, 
A criminal, convicted and condemned 
To die a felon's ignominious death, 
Thus come between us and my cherished hopes ? 
What have I done to warrant this repulsion ? 

Lucy. You swore a lie to take a noble life. 
Your villainy has brought him to this straight. 
You feared to have him near me — you devised 
The plan to work his ruin, and I know it. 
I feel it, and your presence is an insult. 
You feared I loved him, and I tell you, now. 
I did, and love him still, as I hate vou. 



48 THE COQUETTE. [Act V. 

Out of my sight, you brazen, perjured wretch. 

Smythe. If you believe me such, here, take this dagger, 
And plunge it deep into my faithful heart, 
Which beats for thee alone. [ Offers the dagger. 

LtLcy. ^Taking it.~\ I will, you villain. 

\Offers to strike. — Smythe runs out. 
The cowardice of guilt. I'll keep this dagger. 

^Hules it in her dress. 
I may have use for it — I will not live 
If Henry die. How could I wrong him so ? 
How could I trifle with his trusting heart, 
And bring this cruel fate upon us both ? 
I knew not how I loved him till he spurned 
The friendship, which I offered, with contempt. 
And left me with that proud and lofty grief. 
More like a God than man. What can I do ? 
He might be pardoned. I might yet be his. 
0, I would rather be this convict's wife 
Than queen it o'er the world. I'll see my father. 
He has much influence with the Governor, 
Who now is in the city. He will not 
Reject my father's prayer. I yet may save him. [Exit. 

Scene III. — Library Room, Petway^s Mansion. 

Mr. Petway reading. 

Mr. Petway. [Throws down the hook.^ 'Tis useless — why 
should I attempt to read. 
With Henry Howland glaring from each page 
Suspended from the gallows ? God forgive me ! 
Has my imprudence brought the boy to this ? 
How could I dream my well intentioned kindness 
Would work such misery to him and others ? 
Yet was I not a blinded, arrant fool, 
Not to conceive that love would follow contact. 
And daily intercourse of youthful hearts ? 
Even wood will kindle with continued friction. 
My darling Lucy ! Had I known she loved him, 
And with such clinging and abiding fervor, 
By heaven ! and all my hopes of reaching it. 



Scene IV.] THE COQUETTE. 49 

She should have mai-ried him, the world opposing. 
Enter Lucy. 

Lucy. My father ! they will kill him — he will die 
Unless we save him. Hasten to the Governor, 
He is your friend, and you have influence. 
Emplore his pardon. Leave no means untried. 
Do everything an earnest man can do. 
My life depends upon it. Go at once. 
Quick, quick, this moment. 

Mr. Petway. My unhappy child. 
I fear it is too late. ■ Why did you not 
Confide in me, and tell your love for Henry ? 
What boon, through life, did ever I deny you ? 
We have been both to blame. 

Lucy. I knew it not 
Myself, dear father — I was self deceived. 
At first my only thought was passing pleasure. 
An idle frolic with a simple lover. 
May every giddy girl from me take warning. 
Love turns his arrows on the guilty trifler, 
And is his own avenger. Hasten, father, 
And bring back comfort to this tortured bosom. 

Mr. Petway. I go, my child. Whatever can be done, 
With hopeful energy will I attempt. 
I feel I am not guiltless in this matter. 
A righteous retribution presses on us. 
Go to your room, my child, and wait the result. \Fjxermt. 

Scene IV. — C hamher in Petway'' s Mansion. 

Lucy kneeling hy her Chair, Head buried in her Hands, as 
if in Prayer. 

Enter Mr. Petway. 

Lucy. \_Springs up to meet 7im.] And you have seen 

him ? He will grant his pardon ? 
Mr. Petivay. , Alas ! not so, my daughter. He is firm 
In his denial. Long and hard I pleaded, 
For your dear sake, and that T loved the boy, 
4 



50 THE COQUETTE. [Act V. 

And think him innocent. I offered money — 
A princely bribe — but lie is incorrupt. 
There is no hope, my darling, he must die. 

Lucy. He shall not die. Myself will go to him, 
And plead as never mortal plead before. 
He must not die. Save him I must and will. 

Mr. Pehvay. Go, then, my daughter, and may God be 
with you. 
And touch his heart with mercy. Go, my darling, 
(3urs was the blame, be ours to remedy, 
If it be possible, the evil wrought. [^Exeunt. 

Scene V. — The Governor'' s Office. 

Governor and Private Secretary sitting at Tables, with 
Writing Materials. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. A lady, sir, desires an interview. 

Governor. [To Private Secretary .'\ See what is want- 
ing. I am loth to grant 
Another audience to any one. 

I feel fatigued, and need a little rest. [Secretary goes out. 
This application for young Howland's pardon 
Has worried me and put me out of temper. 
(31d Petway's zeal to save this criminal 
Made him forget himself, and what was due 
To my position — yet I felt for him. 
There is a shade of doubt upon my mind 
Of Howland's guilt — but then the proof was plain, 
Direct, and positive, without rebuttal. 
Tlie only question is, did they swear truly ? 

Enter Secretary. 

Secretary. It is a lady, sir, deep veiled and much 
Excited, who implores a moment's hearing. 
She will not be denied. 

Governor. Then, let her come. , 

While I am seated in the chair of State, 
It never shall be said that I am wanting 



Scene V.] THE COQUETTE. 51 

In patience or in justice. Let her in. 

Enter Lucy, veiled. — *S'Ae casts a look at the Governor, then 
at the Secretary. 

Governor. ^To his Secretary.'^ You may retire to the 
adjoining room, 
And wait my summons. [To Lucy.'\ I am at your service. 

Lucy. [Li/ting her veil.~j I am the daughter of a citizen, 
Known to your Excellency, Richard Petway. 
I am his only child, and I have come 
To beg a favor, just denied to him. 

do not turn me off without a hearing. 

Governor. Your father did me the distinguished honor 
To offer money for a convict's pardon. 

1 trust his daughter comes not to repeat 
So gross an insult. 

Lucy. I have come to humble 
Myself in dust before you — to confess 
How vain and weak and wicked I have been. 
Let not my father's faidt prevent your justice. 
If he did wrong, it was his love for me. 
I am the sinner, pa^t all earthly hope 
But in your goodness. 

Governor. It is vain to plead 
For Howland's pardon; he was fairly tried 
And proven guilty of a bloody murder. 
The law must take its course. Crime multiplies 
And riots in indulgence. It is time 
To check the crimson flood. The man must die. 

Lucy. Unsay those dreadful words. But hear my story, 
And you will pity me and pardon him. 
I am the guilty one — on me should fall, 
On me alone, the vengeance of the law. 
He was an honest farmer of the country. 
His peaceful home among the verdant hills 
And chrystal waters of his native State. 
An only son — his parents' hope and pride. 
For he had genius, was by nature formed 
For something higher than his humble station. 
Well read in books, though ignorant of the world, 



52 THE COQUETTE. [Act V. 

With an aspiring and a noble mind, 
The soul of honor, purity, and truth. 

l^Pauses, overcome with einotion. 
My father passed the summer near his home, 
And we were thrown together. I was vain, 
A petted favorite, with city training, 
Thoughtless and selfish, thinking it no harm 
To put the semblance of affection on 
To charm the other sex, and take my pleasure. 
I taught the boy — for he was young.in years, 
Though older than myself, scarce over twenty — 
I taught the boy to love me, made him vows 
Of love and constancy, and nursed his passion. 
I did yet more — I shudder to confess it — 
1 lured him from his home and doting parents 
Here to the city, where he followed me 
Without suspicion, with unbounded faith 
In me and womankind. Alas ! alas ! 
Once here, I treated him with cold neglect. 
We quarrelled, parted, and he sought relief 
In fiery stimulants that dethroned and ci'azed him. 

^Another 20(iiji,se. 
Gone, I repented and found out I loved him. 
This, one who long had sought my hand in marriage, 
Favored by parents, but not liked by me. 
Suspected; and, assisted by a friend. 
His pliant tool, a brainless, city 'fop. 
Planned out his ruin. He had known them slightly. 
Met them occasionally at my father's house. 
And thus were they enabled to ensnare 
His unsuspicious mind with proffered friendship. 
They found him, wandering about the city, 
His means exhausted, and his heart weighed down 
With my misconduct, and they tempted him. 
I can not prove it, but I know 'twas so. 
They brought him to that gambler's den, and there 
Induced the quarrel, with its tragic ending. 
All three were set upon him^ — such the statement 
Of Henry when arrested — I believe him. 
He was incapable of such a deed 



Scene VI.] THE COQUETTE. 53 

Except in self-defence. Yourself would say it, 
Did you but know him as I know the man. 
They swore most falsely — they were interested, 
And not to be believed. They sought his death. 
And he must die unless you pardon hira. 

^Falling on her knees. 
My God ! have mercy. If his life be taken, 
I am his murderer ! I lured him here, 
And brought this fate upon him. If he die, 
He shall not die alone, I will die with him. 
Have mercy ! O have mercy on us both ! 

Governor. Could I resist this pleading, I should be 
More than a man, or less. Your prayer is granted. 

\Rings a little hell on the table. 

Enter Secretary. 

Make out young Howland's pardon in due form. 

[E^r^Yes on a slip of paper .^ which he hands to Lucy. 
This writing will admit you to his prison. 
■ Now go and comfort him. 

Lucy. May God reward you. \_Exit Lucy hurriedly. 

Scene VI. — A Dungeon. 

Henry resting on a rough Couch, a Letter in his Hand, a dim 
Lamp near him. 

Henry. My good old father's letter ! and it comes 
To make me still more wretched. I did think 
I could not suffer more, but now my cup 
Is full to overflowing. She is dead ! 
My mother ! dead ! died of a broken heart 
Before her guilty son. The old farm gone ! 
My father invalid and penniless, 
Without a shelter for his hoary head, 

Bowed down with grief and shame. The hour has come. 
Why lengthen out this torment ? I have kept. 
Concealed, a sure preventive of the gallows. 

\^Draivs a small vial of poison. 
My father shall be spared that crowning shame. 
At least, I am no coward. Life to me 



54 THE COQUETTE. [Act V. 

Has been a failure — I will end it thus. 

\_Swalloivs the poison. 

A Noise loithout, the Jail Door is opened and Lucy rushes in. 

Have you come here to mock me ? It is well — 
A fitting moment. 

Lucy. I have come to save you — 
I have your pardon. forgive me, Henry. 
I never loved but you — you, you alone. 
"We may be happy yet. 

Henry. You come too late. 
You must ask pardon of a higher power. 

Lucy. No, not too late — dear Henry, you are free. 

Henry. Not yet, but shall be soon. 

Lucy. You will forgive me ? 

\^Offers to kiss his lip>s. — He repulses her. 

Henry. No, no, there's danger — do not touch my lips. 

Lucy. What means this, Henry ? Can you not forgive 
Forget the wrong I did you ? [me ? 

Henry. It means that. 

^Pointing to the enipjfy vial. — A spasm follows. 

Lucy. OGod! He's poisoned. Help! there, jailor, help! 

Henry. Hush ! let no curious stranger eyes behold 
My dying struggles. Lucy, darling, rest 
Your head upon my shoulder, let my arms 
Infold you, as I pressed you to my heart 
On the green bank of that bright mountain stream. 
Whose waters now seem murmuring in my ears. 
As in that hour of bliss. I do forgive you. 
I can not say that you have done all this. 
I was a wayward child, rebellious, hasty, 
And prone to evil — I deserve my fate. 
But it is joy to know that you did love me. \Another spo.sm. 

Lucy. [^Rising and drawing the dagger. '\ I will die with 
you. \jPlunges it in her bosom.)^ We must part no 
more. 
^^Tlhroios herself uj^on him, clasping him in her arms. 

Henry. [ Wandering in mind.'\ Mother ! she is an angel ! 



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